"shapers" poems
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Electron herders,
that's us. It began
earnestly late 20th century.
The first organic computers
using polymerase and ADP
came later. Weaponry
via numbers, words
magically appearing,
telepathy. Measurements
in which the last significant digit
is the Other. However
immediately depleted
our resources were,
antibiotics were always at the ready.
Forgetting what we knew,
reverting to austerity
because in times of prosperity
we forgot to be austere.
It's the uncertainty principle
taken to the nth degree
where the bad god resides,
Zeus, passionate, confused, obtuse.
Yes, we are electron herders
matter gatherers and shapers
of our time. Cancerous
cysts, irrational exuberance,
collective experience, experiments
gone well or wrong,
we were trying all along
to last forever. Flood and fire
saw to that.
Prospero was our answer
who threw his book
into the sea and wanted to be
mortal, meditative.
Find himself. We found
the world without the self
cornus to oxalis
orbitals and calculus
waves and particles
equally likely to be
within us as without us.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
Armed with vocal thoughts,
"I" speaks to "You;"
"I" being myself, a rebel-revolutionary,
and "You" being a like-minded individual.
This is a call to arms, my brethren of the pen,
a call to non-violent, passive-aggressive action.
As poets, as shapers of culture,
as heathen warriors of ink and paper,
we are, by unwritten definition, radicals.
We are master isolationists, visionaries,
unwitting weavers of the immense tapestry of time.
Each word, each thought, each image that is
translated from mind to word and deed,
is an instance of your exemplary credentials
in the world of genuine thoughtfulness
and uncomfortably candid philosophy.
"I," as a symbol of myself,
encourages "You," a like-minded individual,
to pick up your threads of thought and
tie comforting commonality into knots
of free thought and controversial honesty
that takes effort to unravel and understand.
"I," a wildfire, challenges "You," standing trees,
to wield your casually intense influence
towards the betterment of our scattered communities.
Draw on historical records,
on embarrassingly personal experience,
on relatable and unrelatable tails
of second-hand hearsay.
Draw on the words of our predecessors,
the ones who waxed lyrical
and the ones who rambled on a tangent.
Draw on the empathetic, mental-link
between "I" and "You" and "Everybody Else."
Take the whole of creation in your hands,
twist and mold it into a new shape,
then plant it in the ground to grow anew.
The words of "I" and the words of "You"
are a seismic catalyst.
All we have to do is trust,
trust in the thought of "You" and
trust in the thought of "I,"
and the poetry in the pages of your notebooks
will take their first, living breath.
h.f.m.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
What's in a soul
That we find of such interest
Captivating and consuming
If the eyes are its windows
What do we hope to find
For even windows tell lies
About what is within
We see what we want
It stands to reason to believe
That eyes are not the windows in fact
But they are the illusion makers
And perspective shapers
The eyes hold other eyes
Convincing while locked
Displaying what is meant to be displayed
The soul stands on its own
It is not shown until it is desired to be shown
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
All roads lead here, the Conduit says.
You cannot count the infinite paths.
To fathom every touch is madness.
But, brick by brick, time after time..
This place has written its own history.
How can it be so, in such a small plot,
To spin the tales of so many?
To be the grand hall of tears and joy,
misery and folly, hope and fear?
Who would we be without it?
How are we so bound to a singularity?
We must marvel at the commonness of it all.
We must marvel and be thankful.
We must marvel but not dwell.
All places, in all worlds are the shapers of creation.
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:08 AM UTC
We poets are teachers
The artists, the leaders
The dreamers, the weavers
Of minds of the infinite
Wisdom conceivers
The gods that you worship
Were made in our image
The heroes you envy
Are born of our wrath
To walk in the steps
Of our off-beaten path
We are mythical martyrs
On whimsical quests
To tickle your fancies
And beat in your chests
When you lock it away
We are there with the key
And a piping hot cup
Of divine empathy
For we feast on your pain
And we dine on your pleasure
We bask in the sun
Of the stormiest weather
And none may deny us
The power we hold
Not an ocean of greed
Nor a mountain of gold
Can stop us or touch us
For we own the skies
The angels you honor
Composed of our songs
Yes we poets are muses
The Tantalus juices
The shapers, the wakers
Of your inner-peace in this life
We are makers
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
I live in a space between hard and harder.
Harder Shaped my life under shapers of elastic.
Elasticaly snapped back in and out .Boomerang!
Boomeranged after i swung perspectively and precisely
Precisely bounced in my face like attempt never occured.
ReOccurring in my situation i tend to fall back.
back and lost in my own sauce .
Sauce spilled in a carpet room ..where to start.
Start from a different angel or stick to my script.
Scripted in a manaul of life's virtual reality
Reality is fading now falling apart
Apart cant be defined.
Defined as real or fake become the dark truth.
Truth told to many and lied to alot .
Alotted time to make sense of none but un told truth amended into what is real.
Real set back time if not percieved correctly.
Correct settings is what i needed to find,
finding out assuming reality is what set me correctly back.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
None can compare
To an artist
They know
Who they truly are
They have to make their work
Striving
Often in desperation
To share
What is in their hearts
An artist will endure poverty
For their art
Rejecting the security and comfort
Of mainstream living
An artist experiences people
Just as they are
And sees the world for what it is
And what it has become
Artists are fearless
Shapers and commentators
Of the now
They will not seek refuge
In what is past
But are only comfortable
When creating the future
It is a painful destiny
To be an artist
But there is no such life
To compare
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 1:31 PM UTC
Where, pray tell, are we now?
How far have we progressed?
Have we covered our ears so we can't
Hear the cries of the dispossessed?
Have pages been ripped out of history books
So that the people cannot see
The struggles that many undertook
To help to set all people free?
A nation "indivisible,
With liberty and justice for all"
Can benefit at times from a self-
Evaluative overhaul,
Or maybe from a look in the mirror
To see whether the image displayed
Truly represents the picture
Of freedom meant to be conveyed.
Through irreconcilable differences,
Have we now become divorced
From hopeful ideals that early on
The shapers of our nation endorsed?
Are we sincerely looking within
Our hearts to make a "more perfect" nation,
Or are we more consumed with drawing
Attention to the standing ovation?
Are we shutting the door to the soul
Of America and walling out
The power and strength that forms the basis
Of what this country is all about?
Let us not be blindsided
By rogue forces that hope to succeed
In weakening what makes us strong,
Only to relish watching us bleed.
-by Bob B (6-16-18)
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
I finally achieved heard immunity
I stopped listening to all the voices in my community,
I deny social media and don’t read the papers
I don’t even listen to the movers and shapers.
Heard immunity
Felt so good to achieve,
Whatever you have to say
I won’t listen and I’ll leave,
To allow you some space
To spout your opinions,
You have the right to do that
With your adorable minions.
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 12:20 AM UTC
I would like
to believe that all writers
know this feeling,
the one you get when you're in
the zone
and the words flow naturally
and you're in tune
with the universe
and the vibrations
of your soul
reach out into the
infinite
and come back with the
forces of creation
and we become the shapers of
worlds and words
and that
sort of power
is intoxicating
and that sort of buzz
is what keeps us coming
back to our
infinitely unwritten
universes
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC